


Trained For Berth

by decepticontrashparty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Incest, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Rape, Slave coding, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19908319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decepticontrashparty/pseuds/decepticontrashparty
Summary: When Perceptor brought the Jettwins online in their new bodies there was one thing he didn't mention - the slave coding written into them.Sentinel Prime takes full advantage of that fact.





	Trained For Berth

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a TFA/IDW Transformers crossover fic [which suggests one of the reasons the Decepticons are fighting the Autobots in the Animated Universe is because slave-coding is used on them. In the fic, the Jettwins have that coding as well, and Sentinel knows about it and is using them as berth-slaves basically. The author just started updating again so I thought I should post this.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115696/chapters/37646762)

Sir finishes talking about how much he hates Optimus Prime, which is often how he starts the evening these solar cycles. Jetfire and Jetstorm have listened and made appropriate noises at all the appropriate moments. They are used to this by now, and if it helps Sir to relax then they didn’t mind being his captive audience. 

Sir sighs, and goes to pour himself a glass of engex from the cabinet at the side of the room. He sits down and gives them both a slow, assessing once over. It is a look that both the twins are familiar with by this point. When Sir gestures to them, they come over. 

“Get down on your knees,” Sentinel commands, spreading his legs. Obediently they do so as he watches them with hungry optics. His hand drifts down to play with his own modesty panel, fingers lightly toying over seams. “Jetstorm, closer. Use your mouth on me.” 

Jetstorm shuffles over the floor and leans forwards. He keeps his hands tucked down in front of him from past experience. They are not to touch Sir unless Sir tells them to. He had been very displeased with their presumption the first time they had made that mistake. Jetstorm presses his mouth to those same seams Sir had been playing with, his tongue flickering out to lap at them and tease them. Sir grunts. 

“Good boy,” he says. “Keep at that. I’ll tell you when to stop.” He takes a sip from the glass of engex resting on the side table, then slides down lower in his seat, letting his thighs fall even more widely apart. His fans are whirring, churning their way into a higher register as they have to work ever harder to dissipate the heat of his rising charge. 

Jetfire remains obedient and still. He has not been given permission to do anything. His spark whirrs in its casing and his fuel pump clenches with anxiety. Why? There is nothing to be anxious about. 

“You’ve got a talented tongue Jetstorm,” Sir says, in between small moans of pleasure. “But I happen to know you both have even more talented mouths.” He nudges Jetstorm’s helm in a signal to back off momentarily, and pops his panel. His spike hisses out of its sheath, a bead of transfluid already welling at the tip of it. Perhaps Sir is worked up enough to overload quickly tonight? “Jetfire. Here.” He points down at his crotch. 

Jetfire squeezes his way beside his twin into the gap between Sentinel’s legs. He mouths at the tip of Sentinel’s spike, licking over the slit at the top a few times before sinking down onto it. Sir grabs onto the back of his helm with one hand and starts to guide him up and down. Jetfire lets himself relax and be moved as though his cables are slack and liquid. The taste is... interesting. He can never say that it is pleasant, but it is Sir’s taste. Sir’s spike stretching the lining of his intake. This is what he is for. This is his duty. 

“You look real nice like this,” Sir tells him, and some part of Jetfire burns with pleasure at the praise. Not all of him though. Why is that? Why can’t he just be  _ happy _ with this? “I could just overload down your throat, have you choking on my transfluid.” Jetfire hopes not. It makes Sir satisfied to do so, so it can’t be bad, but it  _ hurts _ . “Overload all over your faceplates, how about that? You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you.” 

He must have nodded or motioned to Jetstorm, because Jetfire felts his twin pressing closer, maneuvering so that he can suck at the base of Sir’s spike, at the root where it doesn't quite fit all the way in. Sir moans again. 

Jetfire is limp in his grasp. Sometimes Sir likes it when he is more active, when he shows that he has learned how to suck spike properly, but that always makes him feel… fuzzy inside. It is easier like this. Easier to let Sir do what he wants. 

After half a breem, Sir pushes him away. “It’s been a long day,” he says. “I think I deserve something special, don’t you?”

“Of course Sir,” Jetfire replies. “You deserve whatever you want.”

Sir smiles. Smirks. “Of course I do. At least you two can appreciate that.” He jerks his head towards the berthroom. “Up.”

Jetfire gets to his feet with a smooth motion, helping his brother up. Sir stands, his spike jutting proud and wet with oral lubricants from his hips. “Slide back your valve panels,” he orders. “Go in there and get on the berth while I fetch something.”

They both nod. Often Sir wants their panels open from the very start, so he can look at them. He tells them often how much he likes their valves. Sir’s berth is big, long and wide with more than enough space for three mechs to stretch out. Sir already had this berth the very first time they came here, not long after leaving Perceptor’s lab. He did not buy it specifically for them, but it has been put to that use often. More solar cycles than not, as Jetfire has been counting it. 

He sits down on the berth, then leans back on his arms, bringing his heels up to bare his valve. This is the very least Sir expects from them when they are in his berth. In this room they are always to be available. Sometimes he takes them several times over the course of a night, alternating between them - usually when he has no pressing engagements the next cycle. 

He and Jetstorm do not talk to each other while they wait. During interface times, they are not here for the benefit of each other. They are here for the benefit of Sir and no-one else. 

“Here we go,” Sir says, coming in. He strokes his spike lazily, keeping his charge built and crackling. In his other hand he has a long thin toy. Jetfire knows where that goes, and feels his spike twitch behind its panel. Is that a good twitch or a bad twitch? 

Surely it must be a good twitch. Anything Sir does to them is good, because it is him doing it. 

“Jetfire,” Sir says. “Spike out.” 

Jetfire complies. His spike is slow to extend, the execution command glitching half-way through. “Sir I… I apologise,” he says, unable to explain his frame’s reaction. Sir does not acknowledge his words but instead comes over to sit next to him. He lets go of his own spike to play with Jetfire’s. Jetfire shivers, pleasure skittering up and down his neural circuitry. 

“You like that, don’t you Jetfire,” Sir says. “You like my hand on your spike.”

“Sir, yes Sir,” Jetfire replies. His spark is twisting itself into confusing knots. 

“And what about this?” Sir asks, holding up the toy. “Do you like this?”

Jetfire does not know what to say. Does Sir want the truth, or the lie that is more likely to make him happy? 

“You can tell me,” Sir says. “Do you like it when I shove this toy up inside your spike?”

“Not… not really Sir.” Jetfire settles for honesty. If Sir doesn’t want that, then he will let Jetfire know very quickly. Sir keeps on smiling though. 

“That’s okay though, isn’t it,” he says jovially. “Your duty isn’t to overload yourself, is it? It’s to overload me, and if I want to give you two some overloads in the process, you have to earn them. And  _ I _ like how you look with this inside you. I like how it makes you squirm and whimper.”

Jetfire would protest that he doesn’t dislike the toy because it hurts. Rather, it’s the opposite. He doesn’t like how hard and intense his overload is with that buzzing rod shoved down inside his channel… but hasn’t Sir just told him that doesn’t matter? Duty isn’t about whether or not you  _ like _ something. It is about how well you can obey your commander - and Jetfire and Jetstorm are very good at obeying. 

Sir reaches over, holding Jetfire’s spike still, and starts to work the tip of the toy inside. Jetfire feels his plating shaking with the effort of not moving. His hips want to jerk - jerk away, jerk towards? He isn’t sure. It just… feels… too much. 

“There we go,” Sir says, once the rod is completely in. He taps the tip of it with a finger, making Jetfire whimper, and smiles at that result. “And I haven’t even turned it on yet,” he says. 

He releases Jetfire’s spike and his hand moves down, spreading the lips of his valve next. Jetfire isn’t flexible enough to see his own valve, but when he and Jetstorm combine he can see images shared from one processor to the other. They have both seen what they look like under their panels in those ghost images. He knows he has a pattern of biolights that Sir likes, red and yellow that light up when stimulated, just like his brother has them in white and purple. 

Sir slowly sinks two fingers into Jetfire’s valve. There is a little lubrication which eases him in, but Sir always has to do some work to make them wet - if that is something that he wants. He seems to want it tonight. He massages the sensitive walls and circles his thumb around Jetfire’s anterior node. With the rod heavy inside his channel even if not yet buzzing, the pleasure comes in waves. 

“Show me how much you enjoy it,” Sir orders. “Show me how much you like it.” 

Jetfire obeys, throwing himself into the sensation, bobbing his hips up into the movements Sir is making. He lets out breathy little moans, the kind he knows Sir enjoys. 

“Good boy,” Sir says. “You love the thought of being spiked, don’t you. Love the thought of a good hard rod in your valve. Love being nothing more than a spike-sheath, being my toy.”

Jetfire knows how he is meant to react to this. Sir is not asking him real questions - he does not want real answers. He wants Jetfire to act as though his words are only stoking his charge, increasing his desire. He can do that. He has plenty of practise. 

Sir pulls his fingers free when Jetfire is properly wet. “Jetstorm,” he orders. “Come here. And I want your spike out now too.”

Oh. It’s going to be this then. Jetfire wants… he wants… 

That doesn’t matter. Sir wants this. Sir is due this. Disobedience is unthinkable. 

Jetstorm crouches over him on hands and knees, his optics almost invisible behind his visor. Jetfire doesn’t need to see his twin’s optics to know what he is thinking. Their gestalt bond lets through emotions well enough, sometimes more so than either of them would like. 

Duty. Obedience. They are being good. This is good. This is right. This is the way that things are meant to be. 

“You have a nice tight valve, don’t you Jetstorm,” Sir says. He starts to press into Jetstorm dry; Jetfire can tell from the tension in his brother’s frame and that small whimper that escapes from him. That, and the echo of the sensation through their bond. Jetstorm’s spike cycles slightly, uncertain whether it is meant to be out. Sir pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, earning another grunt of pain. He frags Jetstorm slowly, easing into it, enjoying himself. 

That is as it should be, Jetfire tells himself. 

“Now, down,” Sir orders, and pushes on Jetstorm’s hips both with his hands and the weight of his body. Jetstorm bites at his own lip as he lowers himself. Sir reaches around to guide Jetstorm’s spike into Jetfire’s valve. Jetfire’s spike, still impaled by the rod, is trapped between them. “There. Now isn’t that nice.”

The thing is, it is. Jetfire’s systems are all crackling with charge after Sir spent so long working it up inside him, and his valve is ready and waiting to be filled. A spike is a spike, and his twin’s does fine to press against all of his internal nodes and light them up as he completes the circuit. 

“I suppose it’s always a little unfair that I can only frag one of you at once,” Sir says, starting to move again. With each stroke he moves Jetstorm with him. “So really I’m doing you two a favour. Now neither of you have to wait to be filled with a good, hot spike like you need.” 

Jetfire whimpers as Sir starts to pound them both in earnest now. He can feel the ghost of pain that is his brother’s too-dry valve, but it is lost in the sensation of pleasure coming from his own. He knows that Jetstorm can feel what he is feeling too. He is trying not to think. Thinking leads to him feeling upset, even though he cannot put the reason why into a shape that makes any sense. Better to let the steadily building charge sweep over him, take him, subsume his every system. 

Sir is still talking, praising them both and individually. Telling them how good they look spread out and open for him, how they match each other as they frag, how good and hot Jetstorm’s valve feels around his spike. At some point he activates the toy down Jetfire’s transfluid channel and it makes him  _ wail _ . It is too, too much. 

Jetfire overloads, sparks of energy sizzling between his plating and earthing themselves in the berth and in the plating of the two mechs over him. Transfluid spurts out of his spike around the vibrations of the rod, thrown everywhere by the pressure of forcing its way out. It splatters over Jetstorm’s abdominal plating, but he doesn’t stop fragging him -  _ can’t _ stop fragging him, with Sir still pounding into him from behind. 

“Keep going,” Sir says, as though Jetstorm has any choice in the matter. “Overload in his valve, that’s right, just like you want to. I want to see you licking the transfluid out of each other. So hot. Yeah, so fragging hot.”

Jetstorm whimpers again, his dentae clenched tightly. Jetfire is over-sensitised and sore and the toy is still  _ buzzing _ and it is entirely possible that Sir could make him overload again, probably several times if he used some other toys, but generally after Sir has overloaded he loses interest in them for a while. He is close to overloading now, Jetfire can tell. His thrusting is becoming less coordinated and his praise starts to trail off into simple moans and ‘yes, yes’ over and over again. 

Of the two, Jetstorm overloads first, half-triggered into it by the sensation-echo of Jetfire’s. The spurt of his transfluid is warm and wet in Jetfire’s valve and makes him squirm. Then Sir follows a bare few astroseconds later. His hands grip tight enough to almost dent plating. Jetstorm hitches vents in and out past his spinning fans uncomfortably. 

Sir pulls out and lets himself fall loose-strutted onto the plush mesh of the berth beside them. Jetstorm backs away, spike coming free with a wet pop, and sits down with his hands between his legs. 

The toy is  _ still buzzing _ . Jetfire can feel it sending charge crawling over him and he wriggles against the berth. “Please, Sir. Sir, please may I take it out?”

Sir waits a few long moments before answering. He is enjoying watching Jetfire’s desperation. Then he reaches out, loops a finger through the ring at the top of it, and pulls it out with agonizing slowness. A little transfluid that had not previously escaped pumps out of his spike lazily as it finally is removed. 

“Thank you Sir,” Jetfire pants. 

“Aren’t you two forgetting something,” Sir says, danger in his tone. “I gave you an order.”

Jetfire stiffens and scans back through his recent memory. Yes, yes, he processes it now - it had been lost in the rest of Sir’s words earlier. He pushes himself up just enough to turn around and collapse again with his faceplate between Jetstorm’s thighs. Wearily, he spreads his twin’s valve open and begins to lap Sir’s transfluid where it is beginning to seep out. 

From the taste it is tinged with a little shed energon. A small tear in the mesh from Sir’s roughness. Nothing self-repair can’t handle, and besides they are soldiers. Injuries are to be expected. 

When he is finished he lies back and lets Jetstorm do the same to him. Sir is already half-way into recharge, only barely watching. He would be quick to notice if they disobeyed him however - although why would they disobey? Orders are orders. 

At last they are clean enough to get some recharge themselves. The twins curl up around each other, suddenly exhausted beyond all measure. Sir may want them again in the morning. 


End file.
